Drums in the Deep
by xGloryHartx
Summary: In the dark of Moria, Boromir has time to reflect on his fears, his doubts, and his feelings for Aragorn. Unrequited?BoromirxAragorn SLASH, Boromir's POV, one-shot, angsty. Come one, come all.


**Yes, yes, I know, its been about a month since I updated my more current fic, but the plot bunnies attacked me, and I absolutely _had _to write this. I've already got most of the next chapter of The Killer Who Stole My Heart written, so fear not, and don't throw heavy objects at me.**

**My first LoTR fic, so be gentle if I screwed something up, 'kay? Its BoromirAragorn slash, so if you don't like it, don't read it. Boromir's POV. As for where its set? This is a weird sort of hodge-podge of movieverse and bookverse, as I just finished reading the first book, and I can't remember everything from the top of my head, and I'm too lazy to flip through the book to find shit. If its something I need for the plot, regardless of verse, I'm using it. One-shot, though mine have a tendency to become full-blown fics without my permission. I may write a second chapter, which would be a version of this chapter from Aragorn's POV, but who knows.**

**I don't own jack shit.**

_

* * *

_

_In Moria, in Khazad-dûm..._

I shuddered as I recalled Gimli's solemn chant. It was very difficult to imagine these dark caverns a place of lights and lanterns, of craft and brew. Moria is a dark name now, and so does darkness inhabit it. A darkness which causes my heart to quail, so oppressing in its all-encompassing mass.

Legolas had awoken me a few hours earlier to take my turn at watch, and just a look at his fair face in the dim light was enough to know he felt the same. His expression was drawn and taut, eyes, only visible by the faint flicker they offered, narrowed and darting, stance nervous. Even as he sleeps upon a slab of rock several yards to my right, I can just pick out his form, breathing terse, muscles tense. It seems I am not the only one who would wish to be free of this accursed tomb.

Now I sit, elbows resting on my knees atop a raised ledge, trying to remain as still as I might, for even the slightest movement causes an echo. I am torn between two evils; the deafening silence that pushes on my eardrums, slowly driving me to insanity, and the strong temptation to make _some _sound, to break the eerie quiet. I might whistle, or hum a Gondorian battle hymn, would it not be tossed back at me ten-fold like a banshee's cry, and dance throughout the mines, alerting the beaters of the drums in the deep to our presence.

There does not appear to be any light, and yet my eyes have adjusted, and I can just make out the sleeping bodies of my companions. The Hobbits sleep soundly despite the accursed darkness, the damned quiet, all but for Frodo, who seems restless. Gimli rests with his gloved hand upon the hilt of his axe, but he seems more at ease underground than he did in the forests of Rivendell. Gandalf is leaned against a large stone, head bowed, and eyes hidden beneath his bristling brows, staff held loosely in his spindly, weathered hands; I cannot tell whether he is awake or asleep.

Though try as I might to avoid it, my gaze inevitably comes to rest upon the ninth of our number; the man, Aragorn, son of Arathorn, a man whom up until recently I hated with a passion.

Or thought I did, at least.

I remember when I first saw him, before I truly met him. At the Statue of Narsil. I remember that I held the hilt of the mighty Narsil in my bare hand, I cut my finger upon the blade, marveling at its workmanship. 'It's still sharp...' I murmured, and then I felt a presence behind me. Turning, feeling as if I was caught red-handed, though I had done nothing wrong, I looked upon him for the first time.

Sitting there upon the sill, book in lap, and looking at me with a sort of bemused curiosity; he took my breath away. His noble brow and sharp, bristly jaw, straight nose, perfectly thin lips, and, by the Valar, those _eyes_. So intense; fresh with the fire of youth, and yet holding an aged wisdom; alive with passion, and yet weighed by a deep-rooted sadness. I remember thinking; _Why, this man could be royalty!_ I almost chuckle at this thought. Let it never be said that men of Gondor are not perceptive, even if they do not realize it immediately.

I was flustered, unable to think clearly. I recall mumbling some nonsense and hastily placing the hilt of Narsil back upon the altar, intent upon being gone from this place, even though I longed to gaze on that face longer. It was more that desire than the sound of Narsil clanking to the ground that caused me to stop and gaze over my shoulder. I stayed only a fleeting moment, but it was enough to send by heart a-hammering again, and I fled. Yes, I, Boromir, son of Denethor, fled. I could not bear to be the focus of those accursed eyes for a moment longer, for I felt that they bore into my very soul, laying bare my deepest desires and secrets, though I am sure they did no such thing.

I had been surprised to see him at the Council of Elrond. Pleasantly so, for a time, and again he gave me something to be enchanted by. His voice, deep and concise, radiated confidence, and he held an aura of nobility about him; leadership, patience, wisdom. I was awed by him, I will not deny it. I sometimes think it was this awe that drove me to speak so sharply, but oh! T'was nothing compared to my surprise when the Elf rose, and I learned his name. Aragorn, son of Arathorn.

My first thought was of how proper such a name was for a warrior of his like, and my second was one of a strange, churning confusion. Isildur's heir stood before me, the one who was destined to weild the Sword that was Broken against the Enemy and reclaim the throne of Gondor. For a moment my feelings were mixed and stormy, my earlier wonder at this mysterious Aragorn conflicting with a sudden mistrust and distaste. I do not think I ever truly disliked the man; he is an honorable, valiant creature in all senses, but I suppose I felt obligated to react the way I did. I lashed out with a sharp tongue, but Legolas seemed more offended than Aragorn; he almost seemed as if he was used to scorn, though I suppose any Ranger would be.

When it came time to select the Walkers, Aragorn was one of the first to vow himself into Frodo's service. At the time my primary reason for stepping forth was a sudden, irrational desire to out-do the Ranger, to show myself to be better than he, if not at least his equal. However, I now feel that it was also out of a wish to know this man, this 'Strider', as the Hobbits called him.

I am broken abruptly from my thoughts by a quiet, almost imperceptible noise...like bare feet pattering on stone. I look quickly behind me, hand resting nervously on the pommel of my blade, but I can see nothing, and the sound is gone. Perhaps I imagined it...I sigh silently, and my gaze, by and by, wanders back to the source of my turmoil.

I remember clearly the first time I saw him smile. I was sparring with Merry and Pippin, minutes before the spies of Dunland came into our sights. I remember that I felt more content than I had thus far on the journey of the Company, light-hearted for the first time in many nights. I was reminded of happier days past when I would tussle with Faramir on the parapets of Minas Tirith, in my long-distant boyhood. With a ridiculous battle cry I was tackled and buried under a mass of kicking Hobbit-feet; I recall laughing and crying out in a faux plea for mercy, and then spotting him. He was seated atop a boulder, pipe in hand, and he was smiling. The flash of teeth seemed to light up his entire face, his eyes sparkling in mirth as his frank, joyous laughter filled the air. My breath seemed to have been knocked from my lungs, like a solid blow to the stomach, and my sparring companions were nigh forgotten as those shining, stormy pools gleamed with a happiness I had not yet had the good fortune to witness.

It took me a few precious moments to gather my muddled mind at Legolas's cry, and I hardly managed to tumble underneath an over-hanging ridge of rock before the crows flocked overhead, my breathing labored, and by more than just the adrenaline of nearly being spotted. That smile haunted my mind for many a day afterward.

Then there was the failed journey over Caradhras, that freezing, terrible behemoth. The night before we decided to double back, huddled under the sparse ridge, with our supply of firewood running dangerously low. I remember shivering uncontrollably, despite my greater body mass; I expect the little ones had it rather worse than I, and thus was why I had moved a bit farther from the fire, to allow them to gather close about it. My extremeties were turning blue, and I felt certain I would freeze to death atop the mountain. My shuddering breath hitched when I felt another form press against my side, trembling with cold, and nearly jumped from my skin when I realized it was none other than he. At my surprised expression he offered me a grim smile, pulling his cloak tighter about himself and exhaling a cloud of moisture into his hands to warm them. Though it was deathly cold, I could feel the blood rising to my cheeks unbidden, and I returned his smile shakily, leaning into him slightly before I could think to stop myself.

The flightly warmth that spread through my body was such that not even Caradhras the Cruel could banish it, and I could feel my mind crumbling, losing myself utterly in such an insignificant contact. I had forced myself to look away, to turn so that the winds blew my hair over my face, shielding it from view, but I did not feel less content for it. Only when Frodo seemed close to falling into a sleep from which he might never wake up, and we were forced to separate did I feel a sense of loss, the chill rushing in to attack me tenfold.

Mark me, the eldest son of Denethor is no fool; I know what is happening. Rather, I feel that I always knew, but only recently acknowledged it. I am falling in love with him; this I am aware of, but it haunts my mind to know it is so. I should not have these feelings for him. Granted, the jealousy and distaste I felt when I first learned that he was destined to dismantle my father was not right either, but I feel almost as if I am betraying my line by falling for him. Not only that, but he is male. Such thoughts are often considered impure in Gondor; my people are not near as lenient and open-minded as, say, the elves.

And yet, while I have so many other reasons to be afeared, there is one most prominent; he himself. I know that, despite the way I act towards him, I would jump into the very pits of Moria if he asked it of me. Knowing this I am frightened, and I am doubtful.

And it is that doubt that sends my mind into turmoil. I have felt a darkness in my heart; fleeting though it may be, it is still present at times. I felt it first at the Council, when Frodo first brought forth the Ring. My heart seemed to blacken, and a glint of evil flickered in my soul. I felt it, but was helpless to stop it; and, now that I think about it, perhaps that was what caused me to lash out at Aragorn as I did. As soon as I heard his voice, I felt that I was coming back to myself, aware of what a fool's errand I had suggested; using the Ring! Pah!

But the darkness is ever present inside me; I can feel it. The One...it whispers to me. Though there are no words, I am shown things; things that I desire. At first it was promises of grandeur; ruling Gondor as its Steward and being known throughout Middle Earth, but with time the visions changed.

When Frodo dropped the Ring during our scale up Caradhras, and I picked it up...it seemed to speak to me in my mind; it told me that he could be mine, that I could make him forget the Lady Arwen, and see only me; I had but to put it on...

But then he spoke, and the spell was broken. His voice was all it took to free me, however temporarily, from the raging doubts. That voice that so often haunted my dreams as well as my waking thoughts managed to ground me, but unsettled me also. More mumbled nonsense, and the Ring was once again in its Bearer's hands. For a moment the One was gone from my mind as I gazed upon Aragorn's face; the distrust there, the fact that his hand rested upon the pommel of Andúril because of me...it hurt, cut me deeper than any blade.

And now, as I sit here, I am unable to look at him any longer, gazing into the deep darkness, head bowed to hide my shame. I had thought that there was nothing the Ring could tempt me with that would lead me into Darkness, but I can already feel in my mind, sense that, in the end, I would to anything to have him, to hold him. The temptation is awful, unlike anything I have ever felt. Even though I know that the One could never truly grant me this one thing that I desire, I still fall prey to that awful doubt...

I barely manage to hold back a gasp as a hand rests gently upon my shoulder, startling me. What sort of watchman am I if I cannot even sense when someone is literally breathing down my neck?

I relax little when I realize that it is Aragorn. I had not noticed him rise, and I feel like a guilty child to be caught brooding over him, though he surely does not know this. He sits down beside me, those enticing grey eyes glinting silver in some unseen light. Perhaps the light comes from within him; however somber he outwardly appears, I can see that he is filled with an undefeatable hope, like his Elven name I once heard him called by in Imladris. Even if it is little more than a twinkle, it is more than I have myself.

We sit in silence for a time, and I close my eyes, trying to take in his scent as subtly as I might, feeling all the lighter for succeeding as I take in that intoxicating aroma of earth, rain, leaves, and something unidentifiable that is simply Aragorn. In that moment I can think of little else, and my doubts and fears are swept away. I feel renewed, as if I had just taken a sip of miruvór. I know it will not last, but for the moment I revel in it.

After a time I feel his hand (warm, broad-palmed, and rough even through my garb), on my arm. He meets my gaze with those eyes that I could drown in, jerking his head towards the others. I furrow my brows and open my mouth to whisper, but he places a finger upon my lips, shaking his head once to ensure I will remain silent. He leans in until his lips are brushing my ear, his breath ghosting over my skin, and I shudder in surprise and pleasure, hardly registering that he is speaking, the words breathed so quietly I can scarcely hear them.

"Rest, Boromir. I will take over your watch." I am silent for a moment, unable to do anything but tremble as his bristle roughly chafes my face, his long dark hair washing that wonderful scent over me. My thoughts are a jumbled, foggy mess, and all I can manage to do is nod dumbly. He draws away, and I almost allow a whimper to pass my lips, though I bite it back with resolve. I rise shakily to my feet, my legs still wobbling from the close contact, then regain enough presence of mind to grant him a grateful smile. Kneeling slightly, I place my hand on is shoulder, a silent indication of thanks, and I see him nod in the gloom, dismissive.

The touch lingers a second or two too long, but I am loathe to let go; I wish I was not wearing my bracers, for his warmth is dampened through the material. I realize that my hand is dangerously close to wandering towards his neck, and blood rushes to my cheeks, flooding them scarlet. I nod curtly to cover my discomposure and back away, groping through the darkness to find a suitable place to sleep, heart hammering in my chest.

Rediscovering the flat stretch of stone I had slept on before my watch, I situate myself as comfortably as I can, but I find that my eyes are unable to close, landing on the outline of the man that I love. My fingers wander to my cheek, shivering at the memory of his lips' touch, and though it was only moments ago, craving it again.

I sigh silently, letting my hand fall. Such thoughts are fruitless and shameful; he can never be mine. Never of his own accord, and would love be falsified by an outside source...it would all be a lie. I could never live with that.

A single tear runs down my face as I shut my eyes tightly, praying for sleep so that I might forget my doubts, if even for a moment, knowing even as I try that there is only one remedy, and it is something I can never have...

**_~Tel'tela~_**


End file.
